Tag: Flash Fiction

Goodbye, Tarantula

~ Jamal H. Goodwin Jr. ~ Leave a comment

            Tarantula skittered from the snowy window into the dust-ridden bedroom. She paced left and right. She could sense the termites eating away at the bedframe, and the carpet beetles shimmying out the closet. But overlapping those signals was the mouse family’s squeaks: the voice of a mother comforting her children from the hailstorm. Tarantula left the room.

* * *

            After several hours exploring the nooks and crannies of the house, Tarantula found a cubby-hole on the floor beside the kitchen sink. She crawled in and allowed herself to get comfortable.

* * *

            The footsteps of an ant colony. She detected a line of them trooping past her. She swiped them into her mouth without hesitation. They scattered, and she lunged after a few more.

            When they were gone, she remained standing. Still as a stone.

            Minutes passed. Then she crawled back into her den.

* * *

            A high-pitched screech alerted her. It was followed by a second, crackly voice. She exited the den. The sound was laughter. Tarantula traveled to its location.

            She entered the living room and found, on the knotted carpet, a turtle lying on its back, and two ravens standing before it.

            “You buffoon!” One of the ravens said. “What, did you think you could run from us?”

            The living room was bustling with traffic. Tarantula could sense it. The roaches congregating under the furniture. The flies hovering by the molded wallpaper. She saw a stinkbug stroll past the turtle and the ravens.

            “If only we could rip you out of your shell,” the raven said.

            “Had our beaks been sharper,” the other raven said. “We’d pierce that meaty head of yours.”

            One of the ravens turned its gaze directly at Tarantula. Tarantula stood motionless. For minutes. Then she skittered back into the kitchen, back into her den.

* * *

            From a window, white light poured into the kitchen. Hail was replaced by snow flurries. From a hole in a tree, the cheerful chirps of sparrows. Remarks at the prettiness of the snow. The desire to fly out among it.

            Tarantula could sense this. Just as she could sense the presence of the ravens, still somewhere in the house. Just as she could deduce the turtle was still on its back.

* * *

            Hours passed before Tarantula left her den. When she did, she went straight to the living room, and flipped the turtle right side up again. At this, the turtle beamed.

            “Golly, thanks!” the turtle said. “Thank you so much! I thought I’d be scrambled like that forever!”

            Tarantula stood motionless. The snow continued outside the house. Tarantula turned. The turtle tried to mouth something, but couldn’t think of more to say.

            A blast of wind sounded and the turtled leaped into its shell. Angry caws echoed in the room. Then silence.

When the turtle poked its head out, Tarantula and the ravens were gone. The turtle stood and walked toward the open window.

            “Goodbye, Tarantula.”

The Perfect Gift

~ Jamal H. Goodwin Jr. ~ Leave a comment

“Dude: me and Karey, rappeling down a cliff, blasting Earth Wind & Fire out these speakers.”

“… and that’s your idea of a relaxing Valentine’s day?”

It was Shawn I was talking to, so I couldn’t be miffed at the reaction. A windy spring day, leaves loosed from trees brushed across his cheek or afro; his mouth remained agape. I rose from my reclined posture, patting my hands on my knees. He won’t win this lecture.

“We’ve been hiking like a bajillion times by now. She’s been saying it’s too easy, and she wants to ramp it up.”

“Really?” Shawn said. “She’s been with you hiking that much?”

“Yeah, we—”

“OK. Let’s say she has, pal of mine. She’s still. Scared. Of. Heights.” He made chopping scissor fingers and lowered his hand to the ground. “That’s you by the way. She’d push you off before going down herself.”

“She would not. She loves me.”

“And for what reason, I do not know.”

“Because I saved her life, I’m great at directions, I cook mean meatloaf.”

“Oh alright. You are a good cook at least. My wife’s been begging me to become your student. She still can’t get over those steaks…”

“Whoa-ho-ho! Has my guy finally left the souless salad side of vegetarianism?”

“Fat chance, moo murderer.”

“You’ll come around, someday,” I said. I turned to the corner and picked my new speakers off the bench. “Anyway, wise guy, what do you think I should do for Karey next week?”

“Anything that doesn’t involve those speakers. Unless you’re playing smooth jazz.”

“Yuck, that’s what she likes.” A woman walking by rolled her eyes as she passed me.

“Well if you’re tryna marry her someday you better get used to making sacrifices.”

“Yeah yeah.” I said and shrugged. But deep down I knew he was right. Karey and I started dating five years ago, and it took two years of friendly prodding for her to dip her toes into my lifestlye: I took her on her first hike. We’ve been on several since; she loves it. It would be rude of me to not give her world a try.

“Will that be the red or the white wine,” a waiter might ask us. I’d sweat profusely. What’s the difference? And you can’t say “I’ll take a beer” in the restaurants Karey likes.

“She’s been dealing with nasty costumers all week,” Shawn said. Her shoulders likely ache from hunching over at that receptionist desk all day. She needs… a massage. Or a sauna. Go with her, try both!”

“I dunno if I can sit still for so long while somebody’s touching me.”

“Make some jokes. She’ll be right next to you, you’ll forget about your surroundings.”

“What if I forget to hold in my farts?”

Shawn slapped both palms to his face. “Man, man, man… you’re hopeless.”

The Nine Billion Names of God – Short Story Review

~ Jamal H. Goodwin Jr. ~ Leave a comment

The Nine Billion Names of God is a short story that speculates God’s purpose for mankind and how technology intersects with spirituality. With a total of three scenes and no particular protagonist (rather, we hop from 3rd person limited over various scientists as they interact with Tibetan monks), the author Arthur C. Clarke makes it clear that rather than character growth, the story’s events are what readers should focus on.

Throughout the story you’ll gain a sense of wonder at the monks and their planning capabilities, culture, and history, even if they tend to be vague and cocky. For instance, they gladly explain their goal with the device known as the Mark V computer—to discover and transcribe all of God’s names—but offer no explanation as to how they can tell what a “real” name is compared to other names. As you learn about the Mark V’s progress, you’ll be introduced to a captivating twist, one that will make you question the cosmic-spiritual rules of our own reality.

While character development is nonexistent, character is very present, and I’m certainly grateful for it. The monks are like poker players holding secret knowledge, and the scientists act as clueless as we feel. One scientist, who doubles as a salesman, questions just how is it that the monks know how to handle technology like the Mark V.

Another scientist name George is bored working in the monk’s temple, is anxious to leave, but his commitment to his job shows us some humanity in contrast to the stoicism of the temple-goers. There’s even humor to be found in his critiques of the monks. And in the nick of time, the scientist named Chuck arrives in the story to provide a sense of adventure.

Prose-wise, this story is written in colloquial, easy-to-follow English with a healthy amount of dialogue and narration—it’s thin on description, but objects and setting details aren’t overly important in the narrative. The lore of the story unfolds at a quick pace, thanks to a time skip, and the rules of spirituality remain consistent and left open just enough for readers to fill in some blanks with their imagination. My one complaint is that it’s never stated why God has multiple names. What, does he have a lot of nicknames or something?

Overall I think this story does an excellent job getting readers thinking. What is our purpose in the universe? Is technology a part of it? Are we even supposed to reach our purpose? If questions like these interest you, or if you like science, philosophy, or religion in general, this is the story for you.

To Although With Haste

~ Jamal H. Goodwin Jr. ~ Leave a comment

Charlie boards the train. She does not know where she is going. To exit the cavern of the subway requires exiting the car of the train, which can only be accomplished by escaping the catacombs of her mind.

She slumps on her bookbag. Tunnel lights strobe-light past, and at each flash Charlie winces. To although with haste, she is thinking. To be the contrarian instead of the pacifist. What does that require?

The Central Street train’s passengers are sparse today. Across from Charlie are three empty seats, and beside those empty seats are more empty seats. She thinks she saw a mother and two kids at the car’s beginning. Where is the father? Busy at work? No. More likely he wasn’t in the mood to watch the kids, so he pawned off another job to his wife, feigning gratitude, and she, lovingly obliged to her husband, never thought to protest. Never thought what she wanted.

The train passes a few stops. People board, people exit. Charlie realizes she cannot stay in this ennui forever. Not even if she wanted to. But how to remember? Rage remembers.

In rage she could remember his wrinkled brow, mirth leaking from his cheeks as his curled lips uttered “That won’t be necessary.” He skirted through the door she held open for him, his friends already seated in the car. She only had time to say “Okay, have fun tonight.” He was in good spirits that day. But many lonely nights prior she stood by his side, taking in his sadness and emptying her spirits to fill his soul. She was his Dasani bottle. Pristine at first, reused for years for various drinks, never washed, accumulating pulp and sludge, the plastic crumpled, and only used when necessary.

But when sunbeams inevitably cleansed her, she’d wave to him in passing, her mind still trained in the habit of politeness.

What would have happened if she had acted differently? In the first place, that would require her physio-psycho-framework be entirely different. From birth she would need to be constructed with cells of bravery, not timidity. Her fingers would need to be longer, her pointer finger jagged like a knife to add emphasis to her “No.” She would be 1 ft and 1 in taller, so her weight would distribute evenly on her hips, instead of guys telling her she was a lop-sided cupcake. When she spoke her voice would echo, would shove the chest of listeners, so they would know to stand back and pay attention. As it was currently, he talked over her frequently.

She would need thicker hair to impress other women and boost her ego. She would need confidence in her bones, so her body type wouldn’t matter; what would matter was bringing her body wherever she wanted and using it to do whatever she wanted. Had she had these things, things would have been different. But just what would the different be? “No, I’m coming with you,” Charlie could have said. But then he would have made fun of her. He’d call her that word she didn’t like, that all men used as a hose to put women in order.

The train slows to a stop she does not know, so she disembarks. Charlie exits the station, crosses a roofed bridge, descends some stairs, and arrives at a dock. She walks to the edge of the planks and sits, lets her legs dangle. To her left and right are boats of various shapes and sizes. They bobbed peacefully atop the water. The green water. What dirt, seaweed, or life shuttled around in the depths? Charlie could only imagine. In the distance is a jet ski which leaves ripples that travel all the way to her. She’d like to be as free as that jet ski.

What will she do about this listlessness? Optimism had yet to return to her. Perhaps she could dive in for a swim; exercise this ennui away. Or maybe. Journaling could help, though she’d have to fetch a used math or science notebook out her bag; that should suffice, but what if she forgot to tear out the page and she went to class the next day to have a classmate invade her thoughts? Even her dorm-mate could raid her belongings in search of math notes and discover deeply personal words.

So she dares to voice her problems aloud. To herself on this serene dock amid solemn emotions she gives each of her demons form so she can crush them. Her voice rises and falls and ends each sentence with the cut of a dagger. Why should he and other men and women and old ladies accost her, criticize her, ostracize her, knowing she’s generally obedient? Why be obedient? Be the contrarian, she says to herself. Start scuffles for no reason, just to prove dominance. At every opportunity, say “I’d agree with you, BUT…” Especially to him. Embarrass him in front of his friends. Let them see the marshmallow hide you’ve nursed back to health. Let them see HIS tears and flailing arms as he squeals and scampers back to the barn, snorting. Charlie would say, “I used to love him, although he’s quite a pig.”

Nostalgia Knots

~ Jamal H. Goodwin Jr. ~ 1 Comment

In the dim light, black dust drifted just above the floor of the shop. Specks of it crept from nowhere and vanished just as quickly—twirling and hovering about. They lingered by a red armchair that awaited the day’s clients. Clumps of it littered the floor around the chair, Clumpy knots fastened by thousands of curls. Their umbral shade was imposing. Olive fragrance emanated from them, mingling with the shop’s cologne and worn shoe smell. The curtains were closed, and the lime walls had three paintings fixed on their concrete surface: a dark-skinned DJ and a woman dancing; puzzle pieces approaching completion; an onyx continent unfurled across white-blue foam.

The owner swept silently. Paint chipped blades gyrated from above, and that black dust evaded capture. Besides swipes from the broom and the fan’s thrumming, it was dead quiet. A lamp beside the desk mirror lit the shop and accosted gray light peering through the curtains. Facing the desk, atop the console table, a flat screen droned, mute, playing a court skit from The Richard Pryor Show.

The owner managed to get some large clumps off the floor. Other pieces were spread out or stuck on the tiles. It was tougher than usual, his shoulders stiff from a bad night’s rest. He hoped the day’s clients had stories to tell.

Bells chimed as the glass door swung open. “Hey, Mr. Tristen.”

Phillip turned and straightened his back, searching for the unscheduled entrant. It was a young man, his hair in a fade that’d been curled with a twist sponge. A thin jacket sagged on his shoulders. It was carbon around the abdomen, lead from the chest up, the inside collar vermillion. He knew that jacket.

“Heyo, Bobby!” He let his broom thwack against the wall and gave him a pound. “What’s good young brother? You’ve had a growth spurt.”

“I know, I know. I’m thirteen now.”

“Thirteen? Boy, you done grown so tall. You not done yet?”

Bobby laughed, his face folding into a crescent so familiar to Phillip. Phillip turned, eyeing his unkempt floor and his muted TV.

“You come for a cut Bobby? Your hair’s already fresh. Sit your jacket off, I can shape you up.”

“No Mr. T. Just wanted to catch up. Haven’t seen the place in a minute.”

He walked around Phillip to the TV, then scanned the milkcrate of books below and beside it.

“You always had good reads,” he said. “Remember that book of world records?”

“Yeah. They weren’t records. More like world’s weirdests. Ripley’s Believe it or Not.”

“Like that woman with the fingernails?”

“Pshh, don’t remind me. Every step she’d take would make the ground screech like a chalkboard.”

Bobby picked up one book at a time. He opened, flipped through, saw just about all the pictures, then set it back. He turned to Phillip.

“I could bring chalk if you want. Could scrape some on your window. It’ll be like she’s here to visit you.”

Phillip marched over and waggled a fist.

“Now I’ll beat your butt if you do that.”

“Are you sure? I know you love screeching noises.”

The two giggled, wrinkles tight on their mouths and foreheads. Laughter bounded from wall-to-wall, filling the soundless shop with life. When it quieted, Phillip decided the day was young and he ought to have some sound instead of his mental acrimony. He unmuted the TV.

“So Mr. Tristen, how the customers treatin’ ya?”

“Oh you know. Same stuff as always…” he said, walking towards the entrance. He adjusted the curtains to let in natural light. On the windowsill was a ceramic pot. It was coil shaped and painted blue, shiny in the light. Potted in it were bamboo stalks—for good luck.

“…every time I’m giving one guy a cut, another comes in fifteen ahead of schedule. Like they shouldn’t have to wait.” He shook his head. “But the funny ones. I forgive em.”

“At least no one’s causing any beef.”

“No, no fights break out here. The worst are the loiterers. I usually do appointments only, but that doesn’t stop some gutsy fool from tryin’ to squeeze in.” He hopped on the windowsill. “How about you Bobby? Breezing through your classes?”

Bobby waved a hand.

“I have to. Mom would have my head if I got anything below a B.” He paused. After clearing his throat, he stood and said plainly, “I’m moving. And not to a different neighborhood this time. We’re going to New York.”

Phillip recoiled.

“Dang, that’s a hike.” He put a hand to his chin. “You excited about it?”

Bobby shrugged. “Doesn’t make a difference, I guess. Either way I’m going to high school next year.” The two knew each other for some time, so it wasn’t hard for Phillip to see Bobby’s furtive urgency. For one, his insistence on nostalgia. Then there was his tapping foot. It tapped at this moment, to an incongruous rhythm parallel to his unspoken thoughts.

Phillip dropped his hands. “You’re nervous, aren’t you?”

His eyes shrank to marbles. He shrugged again.

Sitcom laughter rang from the TV. Richard Pryor, who was playing a Southern, racist lawyer, made a failed attempt to solicit evidence from a ditzy and duplicitous victim; instead of saying where she was when her supposed assault occurred, she described the beginning of Alice and Wonderland.

Bobby’s home the last three years was a cramped, rented space. It was a rectangle: two floors, vertical, and as narrow as a back alley. His parents’ plan was to save wherever possible so they could pay for his college. Phillip didn’t dare ask what the New York home was like.

Instead he made a hard blink and tried to focus. “It’s not easy. You’re not only gonna have more freedom than before, you’ll be in a totally unknown environment. My advice, start off slow.”

“It’d be easier to do that if my friends were there. I’ve never ridden a bus before, I don’t know any hangout spots in NY.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Your dad’ll show you the bus route to school. But when you have some free time, just walk around your block. Get familiar with the place and who knows. It might start to feel like home.” Bobby’s gaze began to soften. “As for friends, keep contact with the ones you got. You’re getting older. I’m sure you’ll be allowed to come back and visit.”

With a brusque exhale Bobby nodded, then eyed the room. He looked at the paintings—his favorite being the DJ, Phillip remembered—and the TV and for a few moments the red chair before he finally turned and asked, “Why didn’t you sweep up yesterday?”

“Hah, just tired is all.”

“That’s it?”

Phillip hopped off the windowsill and waltzed to his broom.

“Yup. Needed to catch up on some sleep. It’s good for your brain, you know. What’s it, around 75% of memories recorded during REM sleep?”

Bobby cocked his head. “Huh.”

“Don’t worry bout it. Stuff you think about when you’re older—my age older. Have you decided what you’re gonna do when you grow up?”

“I dunno. I could be one of those people that gets paid to play videogames. But I should just get money—for free, for being myself.”

“Seriously. What do you like to do that makes you happy?”

“Alright, alright. Well, I like to talk a lot. Kids in class like to listen to me, even the teacher sometimes. I guess I would be a lawyer.”

“That’s the ticket! You’ll be an excellent lawyer. Use that creativity of yours. Go and tell the jury a story.”

With a wide smile and between laughs, Bobby said, “Yeah. Yeah I will. Thanks Mr. T.”

Phillip dipped his head in approval. He was slightly startled when he noticed Bobby, laughing, was backing away towards the front door.

“Alright Mr. Tristen. Imma head out.”

“Okay Bobby, you take care now.”

Bobby waved and bells chimed at his opening the door.

Phillip threw a hand up and called out, “Hey Bobby. Come down to visit from New York sometime.”

The door shut.

The ceiling fan gyrated, incessantly, but it could hardly be heard. The TV eclipsed all sounds. Gusts swirled to each corner of the shop, and on the floor those black clumps bumbled liked tumbleweed. Phillip sighed and retrieved his broom. Lifting his shoulders made the joints crack but swaying them made them stiff. How would he get this hair off the floor?

Gritting his teeth, he swept.